Awake, O Sleeper
by SomebodyAlreadyHasThatUserName
Summary: Every year, the little town awaits the arrival of the same teenage rock band...for the past half-century.


When the band known as the Bloody Boys descended upon the Mayflower Hotel on the twilight of a November evening, the staff was waiting for them. They were exhausted, the boys' manager, a perpetually drunk middle-aged man told the cooks, housemaids, and servers; and required sustenance.

The staff was quite aware that something like hamburgers could not satisfy the band's cravings.

This had been a common occurrence for the last 150 years. The band would arrive at the hotel, tired and hungry, and the service would make sure to keep the blinds down. To keep certain herbs out of the dining area. To keep the Gideon Bibles out of the band's rooms. And not to spill any lentils. But most importantly, they must avoid reading the local papers and to keep a close eye on the local homeless. This had been the deal for 150 years, and like a frenetic sufferer of OCD, they did not know what would be the result of breaking these rules: only that the tradition lurched on with the crunch of bus wheels against the asphalt.

Some of the band members changed: one sullen-faced pale boy might be the drummer for fifty years, but then fail to show up during the next tour season. The boys' hairstyles and clothes changed like the leaves of autumn, and yet their faces remained pale, pouting, arrogant, and reckless, like Lord Byron. The staff did not question this. They did not question the manager, the Bloody Boys' Master of Ceremonies; and they dared not speak to the boys themselves.

"Tradition must be kept," each hotel manager reminded his crew each year. "As must the purse be full."

To hear was to obey. To do else was to pay.

Until.

Until one November evening, a rosy lass with twinkling eye and pale, ginger hair was found on the side of the road; her pretty neck snapped like a farmhouse chicken's. Emily was her name, and sweet was her soul, like a newborn lamb's.

And she was the new hotel manager's daughter.

The Bloody Boys rolled into town shortly thereafter.

"No more rules," the hotel manager whispered to check-in clerks. "No more rules," the clerks repeated to the pimply bellboys. "No more rules," went the hushed voice to every housemaid, cook, bartender, and cleaner. The traditions were no more. And neither was hospitality.

As if sensing the ripple effect, the Bloody Boys were more violent and sloppy than ever. They loped into the hotel and went for their regular rooms, not even bothering to sign in. Something was off when the lead singer reached his suite and promptly vomited.

A cross had been posted on the door.

The others tried for theirs, and were promptly blocked by the same thing. The younger boys' perfect faces crumpled into rage and fear. The older ones simply and resolutely kicked down the doors: crosses had not as much effect on them as they did in times gone by.

But a maid with a spray bottle full of holy water? Perhaps a little more.

The band manager shrieked as his little stars stumbled out into the halls, their model looks twisted and deformed by holiness. They made an awful, reedy sound of screaming and crying. Those who had not kicked down the doors snarled and sped through the corridors, curling bystanders' skin and throats into ribbons. The next wave of staff-soldiers moved in, scattering lentils before the boys on the pristine carpet. The ghouls fell to their knees, counting and picking the beans up with frustration and anger. Thus, their necks were exposed for falling axes.

The disfigured made a run for the doors, licking their wounds, and were greeted by the remaining staff members. They wore barely restrained smiles.

"Did you need to leave?" the hotel manager asked, as he stepped out from the crowd. "Did you want to leave?"

The ghouls and the drunken manager (who was now quite sober) made no attempt at an answer. Their slit, serpentine eyes flitted from one enemy to the next.

"You didn't even check in!" the hotel manager said in mock horror. Then, "at least you should have something to eat."

He beckoned with a hand, and the cooks stepped out beside them, holding covered dishes. They stepped within reach of the remaining Bloody Boys and lifted the domes off.

The air was instantly saturated with the cloying scent of garlic.

"Tarte flambée," the head chef announced in a ringing voice. At the same time, each cook lit his flambée with fire. Then as one, they shoved the entrées into each boy's face.

The band burst into flames, their once sultry, now hollow voices screeching like tortured violins. Tongues of flame lit the floor, and an alarm sounded. On cue, the humans made a break from the once proud Mayflower hotel, and it was ensured that everyone who deserved to get out did. No one called the fire department until the whole building had been engulfed.

The hotel manager viewed it all with grim satisfaction. It had been all too easy, he realized, and knew that something was wrong. It was then that he saw the band manager crawling away from the destruction, charred but alive. In a moment, the hotel manager was over and had him by the collar.

"Did she suffer?" he demanded. "Did my little girl suffer?"

"Yes," the band manager gasped. Then – "I couldn't do anything about it. The boys made me watch! They were out of my control!"

"Is that what you say to every hotel?" the hotel manager snarled. Now was the final coup-de-gras. He slid a hidden rosary up and over his head, and placed it around the band manager's neck. The creature choked, as his throat closed up from holy burning. But he seized the hotel manager's throat, dragging his sharp nails into his flesh. The two fought to escape the other's grasp, as the hotel flickered and shimmered like a giant, deadly candle.

"One day," the old vampire wheezed, gripping tighter. "One day, you will die with no one to bury you. You will be old, and your wife dead. And your daughter will be one of us."

This only made the man snarl, and he forced the cross into the monster's mouth. With a fwoosh, the creature went up in horrible-smelling flames. It quickly blew aside into ashes, leaving only the rosary behind.

Nobody questioned the hotel staff about the fire. It was declared to be an arson by some local hoodlums, and the local priest threw salt on the smoldering remains of th building. The newspapers remained silent out of respect, but the town celebrated at the oldest tavern with the most delicious food.

But the hotel manager left the celebrations early to go to the cemetery. His family's plot was there, as it had been for generations. The love of his life was hidden in the soft earth, marked by a cross; and his little girl had joined only a few days ago. The sky was smoothed over with grey clouds, and a soft wind was blowing.

"Awake, O sleeper, and rise from the dead," the man whispered. "And Christ shall shine on thee."

As if in response, the earth stirred.

Like snowdrops, four slender, white fingers pushed their way through the soil. It was followed by a palm and thumb, and reached out toward the man in expectancy. The man paused, before taking out his reliable rosary. He knelt and dropped it into the outstretched hand, the warm beads pooling into the cold flesh.

"This was your mother's, darling," the man whispered hoarsely. "Remember her, and me. Be my baby, and wait for me in Heaven."

The hand paused, before slowly curling its fingers over the holy item. Thus clutching, the fist shook three times, before sinking back into the soft soil, like the Lady of the Lake with Excalibur.


End file.
